CRONE TALES

The wife lost in the midwinter woods, a fairy tale for enlightenment

May 13, 2020 /

Stew simmers on the stove and a bright hearth’s fire burns. After a lone walk by pale starlight in the forest dark, the crone returns. She has a wintry tale in mind to tell. Listen. Find what meaning you will.

 

 

 

There was a crone in need of shelter from the bite of a cold winter’s night. She came upon a village and knocked upon the door of a snowy cottage.  

“I can offer a cup of hot pottage,” said the wife who lived there. Her eyes darted about. “But then you must go, and quick.” She gestured to a pot that bubbled on a grate over the fire.   

The crone lifted the first oniony spoonful to her cracked lips as the door banged open. The husband stopped in the doorway, a dead fox slung over his shoulders, and glared at his wife. “What is this? Who eats my food?”     

The crone gave clear answer. “I am a traveler in need of food and shelter for the night. In exchange I will bless this house.”

“You are nothing more than a begging hag!” The husband grabbed hold of the crone and tossed her out the door. There she landed on her poor leg, snapping the bone. The crone made no sound but turned to look back. Fixing her eyes on the wife, she blew her a magic kiss. This is the end of the crone in our story. The night was too cold; I’m sorry to tell you she died in the wind and the snow.

The next morning when the wife woke, it wasn’t only with bruises—there was fur covering her face.

“This is all your fault,” complained her husband. He pulled back a fist. “That hag you let in surely threw a curse with that blown kiss!” The wife ran from the house. The husband gave chase, but she entered the midwinter wood where he dared not follow.

There the wife wandered lost in the white moonless forest in her gown and bare feet. Wind blew and trees leaned at the wife so that she shrieked to get away. This, on top of howling wolves. When a pale dawn arrived, she found a tree set apart from the rest, with a door set into the ancient wood atop gnarled roots.

She knocked, and when no one answered, she let herself inside the burrow.

Inside she discovered a table with chair, a small bed, and a hearth stacked with wood. Straightaway she made a fire to warm herself. Once her body stopped its shivering she climbed into the bed beneath the quilt, exhausted. The howling kept up, but then woods are meant to have wolves.

Our wife slept all day and back into the night. Once awake she quickened the fire and made herself a meal from a sack of seeds found in the cupboard. With her belly goodly filled, she set about tidying the tree burrow to clear its blanket of dust. This is how she found a hooded red cloak beneath the bed and soft boots that fit her feet. 

“I wonder if I might stay,” she told the tree and heard its branches stir. Feeling cozy and most welcome, she decided not to return to her village for the time being, for who there would take kindly to her face with its fur?

By day she walked the white woods, talking all she pleased, giving her opinions to various trees on a myriad of things. Mushrooms grew in the snow for her to find. Winter berries, too. Once upon an evening a pack of wolves tracked her as she went along, but when she turned her furry face upon them, they bowed. After this she found rabbits left upon her doorstep. With these she made a tasty stew.

Each night she buried deep in her bed’s quilt and with drowsy eyes gazed at the hearth’s glowing embers. The burrow’s branches swished above her head and creaked most pleasant in the wind. She felt safe.

One day as our woman took a walk amidst flurries of snow, she noticed strange stitches in the sky. An unseen hand sewed more and more stitches until the heavens bruised black and blue. At last, she realized that the stitches were not stitches but birds. They made an awful sound like none other she’d ever heard.

The ravens easily spied her bright red cloak moving swift in the white forest below. They dived from the sky, breaking branches to reach our woman and fly about her in a whirlwind of black wings. She fended off their sharp talons as she ran for her burrow. Once inside, she slammed the door only to fall back on her bottom as birds pelted into the wood. She heard her beloved tree groan with the weight of countless ravens landing upon its branches. This made her angry.

“What do you want?” she hollered through the door.

A solitary screeching voice bid her greeting and said:

“We seek a rib!”

“A what?”

“A rib, a certain husband’s wife, are you she? This wife must return to her husband’s side from whence she came. Tell us the truth, what is your name? Do not lie, or we will know. A sorcerer’s spell is cast upon us to tell us so.”

And then the unkindness of ravens shrieked in awful chorus over and again:

 

Please, if we don’t find the rib,

We shall suffer the blame.

Must we peck out your eyes?

Just tell us your name!

 

Our woman clutched her ears, so horrible shrill did the ravens sing. She opened her lips to give her name to make the chorus stop—

And couldn’t be more surprised to find that she could not.

The notion of a name seemed absurd. How could she have one and whatever would it be? For her mind was as clear and vast as the sky, and she breathed into her lungs the traveling wind. Her being was no less deeply rooted than the standing trees. Her dreams moved with the moon, and she had rivers of life’s blood flowing within her veins. What had happened was this:

She’d become so wild she’d forgotten her name!

That’s when she knew.

“I am of the earth, not of a man,” she said, astonished.

You should know that when any woman comes awake, she suddenly sees this exact same thing. Never mind old stories which proclaim that in the beginning woman was born of a man. Forgive my old woman’s laughter, but everyone knows it never happens that way.     

Think on this and see. And ask what the purpose of men telling things backward might be!

As for our wild woman of the earth, she opened the burrow door and told the ravens: “I am most definitely not a rib. Not only that. I have no name to tell you that is wholly true. For I am me, but also wind and river and tree.”

The sorcerer’s spell upon the birds made certain this confession was accepted as pure fact. “You are not the rib we seek,” the birds shrieked and beat their wings to fly away and never come back.   

Nameless. Wild. And free. Our woman delighted that she now possessed a knowing like none other she’d had before. What this meant was this:

She’d never after be deceived.

What a very good thing! For when the sorcerer’s ravens couldn’t find what the husband wanted back, he gathered what courage he had and set out into the woods. Eventually he found the tree burrow and peered through its window to see a woman with a furry face tending a fire inside.

“You must come home now,” he called out to her. For he was weary of burnt suppers.

Our wild woman opened the door in surprise. Looking into his eyes, she could see he had not changed. He was not wild as she but remained unnatural with false stories—he was tamed. This is how she knew it best to say nothing at all to him and went to shut the door. But first—

She offered him a wolfish grin.

And he ran all the way home.

 

 

Okay, so this one is a smidgen longer than flash fiction is supposed to be…but I couldn’t cut any more words, my apologies!

A little commentary: This story is not at all meant to be anti-men. I have a husband and three sons whom I love and adore. No, it’s meant to point to equality, nothing more.

What isn’t separate but is like unto all the world is just plain difficult to give a name, is it not? Just as our wild woman discovered.

And as, perhaps, may you. There is no need for you to ‘make a name’ for yourself. How much better to fall into the thrill of being whole by blending into all the beautiful world? You can choose to be:

Nameless. Wild. And free.

 

If you found meaning in this wild tale, I very much hope you subscribe to CRONE TALES.

I so love comments! You may leave one below:)

 

28 Comments

  • Phyllis Ireland

    June 2, 2020 at 10:35 pm

    This story stirs my Soul in so many ways! “Nameless, Wild and Free. Born of the earth and not of man. “ Thank you for your amazing, creative, imagination and story telling expertise. I feel inspired and amused!

  • Wicky Poarch

    May 18, 2020 at 11:00 am

    I loved it, and I love a fairy tale with a happy ending!
    I hope to read more of your Crone’s Tales..

    • Cricket Baker

      May 18, 2020 at 11:03 am

      Oh thank you, Wicky! Please do read more 🙂 I write about two new tales a month, so if you haven’t, please subscribe…

      I love a happy ending, too!

  • Joella Harlan

    May 15, 2020 at 8:34 pm

    This story is so beautiful, and struck a chord on so many levels! Two months ago I decided to mark this time of solitude by not shaving my face…but I’ve had mixed feelings about being a woman with a beard. What a delight to read about a woman with a furry face! I like having a beard, because it’s part of me. Thank you!

    • Cricket Baker

      May 15, 2020 at 9:55 pm

      Joella, you sound like a wise woman to me! I LOVE how you found your own personal meaning in this story. It’s exactly what the crone within means for you to do. And I’m amazed at how I write a story and it’s meaningful to someone in ways I never could have predicted. Very cool 🙂

    • Cricket Baker

      May 15, 2020 at 9:53 pm

      Wonderful! The crone wishes to draw in her audience, and I’m pleased that the art supported your reading experience. The art isn’t mine; I find pictures online that are available to use. I hope you keep reading Crone Tales, and thank you so much for the comment 🙂

  • Stryder

    May 14, 2020 at 9:29 pm

    Loved this story! I’m a crone and love to be among the trees. I spent my childhood climbing and talking to our trees in the garden and citrus grove. We don’t live in the Forrest now but near the ocean. Thankfully we have the mountains and the shore to walk in. Thank you so much for this story it made my day,
    Wishing you all the best. 🌳

  • Maggie

    May 14, 2020 at 2:51 pm

    I love wild and free! My three girls were often called wild and free when they were little! I didn’t for one minute see this as anti men. I saw it as pro Woman. I liked it being a bit longer if I’m honest. I just thought the old crone had lived in the burrow and that was part of her blessing – a safe house in which to be wild and free. Loved that she knew she wasn’t a rib! Wonderful! Xxx

    • Cricket Baker

      May 14, 2020 at 3:36 pm

      Lol, thank you, Maggie! How wonderful, children SHOULD be wild and free. And how perfect when we grow up and remember how to be that way. I’m glad you saw it as pro-woman. And it’s good feedback for me to hear when people like a bit longer of a story…I’ve had a comment on another tale along those lines. As always, it’s lovely to hear from you. 🙂

    • Wendy

      May 18, 2020 at 1:10 am

      Oh, another juicy tale to be enraptured by… I love the twists and turns you weave into the story! I also love a little of your commentary on the story. I too have a husband and 4 boys, yet long for my solitude and wild. Being true to yourself is the best way to bring joy to others… and yes to more equality!
      And forests are my favorite places~

  • JENNIFER

    May 14, 2020 at 10:50 am

    Long ago I left my village, I live among the trees and listen to their songs, I love the voices of the streams and am never lonely. My children live near by. Pacific North West area. I love a good tale..and you tell the best, I read them to my grandbabies who like myself very much believe in magicks. I thank you for this gift.

  • Sue Andrews

    May 14, 2020 at 3:25 am

    I loved this story , how we all want to be wild & free sometimes, it reminded me of little red riding hood. I loved the little house under the tree & all of nature’s free foods.

  • Christine Slade

    May 14, 2020 at 1:50 am

    Thank you so much for sharing your “gift”. A perfect bit of down time for me.

  • Jody A Mehaffey

    May 13, 2020 at 10:07 pm

    I am enjoying all of these stories. They are especially appreciated during this time of isolation.

  • Cat MacElderry

    May 13, 2020 at 3:30 pm

    Loved this one! I did keep wondering who the little house belonged to and when they were coming back. 😊

    • Cricket Baker

      May 13, 2020 at 3:41 pm

      Lol. I had a bit explaining that the burrow belonged to the crone and her magic kiss also made sure the wife would find her way to the burrow because the wind and trees would chase her there, it was like a ‘safe house’ for women who needed it…it got to be a lot to explain and already the story was getting too long. Still, perhaps I should add a line to give some sort of idea who it belonged to 🙂 Thanks, Cat!

  • Jan Collins

    May 13, 2020 at 3:18 pm

    Wonderful, I loved this tale. Isn’t this what we all dream of, to be wild and free.

  • Grace D'aura

    May 13, 2020 at 2:57 pm

    Enjoyed it very much.. keep on doing what you do . Such talent needs to be expressed . For the world is in need of such food..thank you G.